


Honor to Us

by mssrj_335



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Canon Filler, Castiel-centric, Kinda, Little Dialogue, Love, M/M, Pretentious, Profound Bond, Saving Dean Winchester, Some Action, Tenderness, angels and emotions, descriptive piece, eeeeeeehhhh, rebuilding the righteous man, siege on hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9129475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: Story inspired by Honor to Us All from Mulan for HideYourDemonEyes 600 Follower Disney Challenge.So, SO little to actually do with the song.Cas bringing Dean back from Hell, and the remaking of the Righteous Man





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Self-edited, please point out the oopsies for me

 

When the call to come to arms sounded, Castiel was not the first on the floor. The child, sitting alone on the city block, needed healing.  Perhaps it was the loose cog that his superiors noted, perhaps it was more than that, but the child needed a healing touch and the others could wait.  If he were not on Earth to help those in need, as his Father had commanded, he was unsure of his purpose. 

 

He approached slowly.  He knew that this small thing would likely not see him, but just in case…  The child stirred, as though he felt the breath of Castiel’s wings in the air.  The angel stood just behind him for a moment, willing the clouds to clear and the sun to shine on this pitiable creature.  He could feel the child’s hunger, its weakness.  Castiel passed his hand over the child’s eyes and felt a small surge of pride when the boy smiled, just slightly.  

 

The call sounded again, this time louder, more urgent.  With a snap of his wings and little more than a thought, Castiel flew to Heaven.  

 

There, in the Gardens where his Father used to walk, the angels had assembled.  Castiel stood at the fringe, towering over some and dwarfed by others.  He could feel the frissons of unease working through his siblings ranked, and he wondered why.  Then, Michael appeared.  The angels stood, silent and submissive as the oldest and most powerful addressed the assembly.

 

Though his face could not form any expression a human would immediately recognize, Castiel saw the sorrow and the anger etched into his brother’s form.  

 

“Warriors of God.”  His voice was booming, echoing through the Gardens in a way that was almost painful.  “I come to you with most distressing news.”  Castiel shifted, watching the ripple of unease turn into a wave.  “The Righteous Man…has been taken.”

 

Castiel froze while many of his siblings erupted into clamors and calls of distress.  

 

“He has been taken!” Michael repeated.  “And he lies chained in Hell!”  The angels cried out, some prostrate, others shaking.  Castiel could feel righteous rage building within him.  “If we do not wish to lose the battle foretold by Fate, we must retrieve him!”  

 

The angels began to quiet, and the murmuring returned.  

 

“Who will go to save him?”  

 

Silence.  Was Michael suggesting—

 

“Who will save the Righteous Man?  Who will go to save Dean Winchester?”

 

Castiel could only contain himself a moment more before he rushed forward, shouting,  “I volunteer!  I will go!”

 

His garrison flocked to him, some staring in apprehension.  But Castiel had seen the Righteous Man.  He had seen the soul of Dean Winchester.  To know that such a soul was trapped in Hell was not something he could stand.  Not when he knew the soft edges and the gentle light that had murmured to him since its creation.

 

Michael inclined his head and said, “Come forward.”

 

Castiel’s white wings flicked back as he strode through his brothers and sisters at his leader’s command.  The angels clamored around him, falling in line and following.  Michael reached out to him, hand heavy on his shoulder.  

 

“Will you follow?” he asked of the rest.  “You know what you must do?”

 

Yes, Castiel knew.  And if the others did not, they would soon.  Hundreds more of his siblings gathered around him, their solidarity a comforting reminder.

 

“Take revelation, and whomever you command,” Michael bellowed, “and lay siege to Hell.”

 

With a touch, Michael granted Castiel all the knowledge he would need.  He knew where the Righteous Man was being held, he knew where to hit and where to hide.  He turned back to his garrison and looked to each.

 

“Are you with me?” he called.  

 

Thousands of voices cried out in reply, shaking the very fabric of Heaven with their might.  Castiel could not help the small smile of victory as he turned back to the archangel.  

 

“Bring honor to us, Castiel,” Michael intoned.  “Bring honor to us all.”

 

—

 

The fires and the smoke of Hell burned.  Even for a seraph, they burned white-hot, searing into his being when he flew too close.  Around him, his siblings battled.  They were quick, ruthless.  Merciless as they cut through the hordes of Hell.  Each time an angel fell, Castiel was bathed in the light of their destruction.  He felt something new and horrendous at each death.  He felt anguish.  It ripped through him as sure as he ripped through the demons in his path.

 

There, up ahead, were the gates of the Pit.  There, he could see the faint light of the Righteous Man.  His radiance was dimmed in the black mire, but Castiel would not mistake such a light.  His blade struck, fierce.  Demons shrieked around him.  The smell of sulfur filled his senses.  Left, right, down, strike.  Red eyes disintegrated.  The ashes of its death settled into his wings.  Castiel spiraled, carving a path for the others he left behind.  

 

He drew closer.  Demons scrambled forth from the Pit, crawling like insects from the light.  Castiel swung his sword and the lesser demons turned to dust.  His wings felt heavy, fatigue heavy on his shoulders.  Just a little further.  A yellow-eye leapt, intercepted him.  Castiel’s sword crashed against barbed metal.  The air around him burned hotter at the meeting of holy and blasphemous, over and over.  Right, down, parry, hold.  The demon’s face twisted to a grin; it pushed.  Castiel felt himself slide in the ashy dirt. 

 

“You’re too late, you know,” the demon taunted.  “You'll have to take him out of here in pieces!”

 

“No!” Castiel choked. 

 

He forced a step.  Yellow-eyes lost its taunting grin.  Castiel took another step and shoved with all he had, shouldering past with brute force.  The demon fell, sprawled.  Castiel called to the very vestiges of his Grace and raised his hand.  The demon started to smoke and it screamed.  One more push and the demon was reduced to nothing.  

 

Castiel swept past its ruins and, at last, breached the gate.  He could feel a triumphant cry rise through his brothers and sisters that he had left behind.  Ahead now, was the Righteous Man.  Castiel’s eyes burned at the brightness of it, and he nearly wept.  The soul was strapped, racked, being stretched and torn, soaking in sulfurous quagmire.  Gently, gently, Castiel encircled Dean Winchester’s soul with his Grace.  He cradled him, even as demons scrambled through the pit toward them.  

 

He glanced around.  With one giant push of his wings, Castiel took flight.  He heard the call for retreat and the cry to Heaven was, “The Righteous Man has been saved.  _Dean Winchester is saved_!”

 

—

 

The Rit Zien went before him to prepare a place of healing.  Even in his exhausted state, Castiel could see the ragged edges of the Righteous Man’s soul.  It was a miracle—one that Castiel was grateful for—that his soul had not been mutilated more.  The torturers of Hell had no limits, no mercy.  At the thought, the soul stirred.

 

 _Dean_.

 

Dean’s soul curled against his Grace, agonized, guileless.  Castiel felt something new.  He felt a…crumbling within himself.  He felt anguish, but not the same that he had felt for his fallen brothers and sisters.  What was this?

 

He dared to look down at Dean.  Though he did not breathe, he felt constriction.  What beauty, what _radiance_.  Castiel flew as fast as he dared, careful not to jostle the human in his care.  He must put this right.  

 

A quick message from the healers said that the location’s warding was complete; they were ready.  Castiel alighted upon the warded ground and bowed to Hesediel— master of the Rit Zien.  Already, Castiel felt the healing his superior offered and his knees wobbled.  Hesediel put a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Castiel fell to his knees.  The aches and exhaustion threaded through his being began to dissipated.  Yet, the angel of mercy appeared grievous.

 

“I’m sorry, brother,” he murmured, “that I cannot do more.”

 

Castiel followed the angel’s line of sight.  He shifted Dean in his arms and started, shocked.  His wings had taken the color of charcoal; the fires of Hell burned into his feathers.  No longer was the white of the seraphim.  Castiel stared.  His wings were…unique.  As he regarded them, he sensed the shame slipping away.  Slowly, it was replaced by pride.  It was a dangerous emotion.  Tantalizing.  But—he reasoned—he earned this pride.  He earned this mark.  Castiel swallowed before he raised his eyes.  

 

“Do not be sorry, brother,” he replied. “I will wear them with pride if it means I have brought honor to my family.”

 

Hesediel bowed.  “You honor us,” he affirmed.  “We’ve prepared it for you.  You know what you must do?”

 

Castiel nodded, and Hesediel departed.

 

The healers had prepared a place in the Gardens.  Wards in Enochian would keep out any creature that dared try to pass.  It also kept them safe from prying eyes.  Here, alone, was a place only for Castiel and Dean.  In the center of the garden was a long stone table, and to the right, a barrel of clay.  Though he was not God, Castiel knew the shape and the forms of humanity.  He could not create a soul, but he _could_ create a body.  Gently, he held Dean’s soul in his hands and whispered to him pieces of reassurance, first in English then Enochian.  

 

At first, Dean resisted.  Castiel cradled Dean to his chest, whispering gently, easing Dean’s soul to merge with his Grace.

 

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, “I promise no harm will come to you here.”

 

For a moment longer, Dean refrained.  Then, he relaxed.  Relented.  Castiel felt Dean’s warm weight settle against his chest.  Images of Dean and his life passed through Castiel’s consciousness.  Dean as a child, a teenager, a young man.  He saw every scar Dean possessed and how he came to possess it.  He knew every bone.  Which ones he had broken and which ones were perfect.  The life of the Righteous Man passed through him until Castiel knew every inch, every piece of him.

 

“Father,” he prayed, “help me to fulfill my task.”  

 

Dean’s soul trembled against him when he reached for the first ball of clay, almost as though he were afraid to return to his earthly tether.  Castiel grimaced and shaped the first bone, wrapping Dean tighter in his Grace.  He inspected the bone and laid it upon the table.  Dean tucked himself closer as he started on the next.  His anguish was a siren song, drawing Castiel from the task at hand.  So desperately did he feel Dean’s need for clemency, for _mercy_ , that the angel wrapped his arms around him and held him close.  

 

Dean was shaking now.  Castiel rocked him and felt something new.  It wasn’t pity.  He knew pity.  It wasn’t sympathy either; not really.  This was…tenderness.  Not quite compassion, not quite sympathy.  It became a mixture of the two but more than the sum of its parts.  It was tinged, a feeling pink and soft and unfamiliar.  But, Dean leaned toward it almost desolately.  Castiel let the feeling fill him and spill through his bond to Dean, leeching into his soul.  Dean stopped shaking and began to rest.  Castiel muttered softly in Enochian until, at last, Dean slept.

 

One by one, Castiel remade his bones from clay.  Cell by cell, he remade his skin with water.  Piece by piece, he reformed Dean Winchester.  Indulging in feeling, holding him close so that Dean—and Castiel himself—would not lose this tenderness.  At least, not for now.

 

When Dean’s vessel was complete again, Castiel pulled away slowly.  Dean called out for him, reached for him, even as Castiel laid him gently back in his body.  He could feel Dean tugging on his Grace, so desperate to stay.  Castiel brought him to his feet and pressed against him.

 

“Dean, we have to go,” he murmured in his ear, arms wrapped around him.  “You must fulfill your purpose.”

 

“Do I have to?” Dean’s voice was low, wrecked, unused.  Even so, it settled in Castiel’s Grace as though it belonged there.

 

_No, stay with me—_

 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

 

When Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel in return, the angel could have wept.  Tenderness grew and morphed within him.  _Love_.  He gasped.  _Oh—_

 

He buried the feeling deep and commanded Dean, “Follow.”

 

—

 

Castiel hurtled back to Earth, hand wrapped tight around Dean’s arm.  The other angels were close behind; he could feel them.

 

He landed at the site of Dean’s burial explosively.  Though he cradled Dean to him, the earth beneath him was destroyed, pulled away to reveal the small pine box that once held the Righteous Man.  He pulled Dean to his feet and laid a hand on his cheek.

 

“Dean, you must remember Hell,” Castiel growled.  Dean looked at him fearfully.  “Remember Hell, tell the others.  But, do not remember me.”

 

“Why?” Dean’s voice was choked now.

 

Castiel’s gaze softened as the angels drew closer.  “So you will be safe.”

 

With a touch, Dean lost consciousness and Castiel replaced him in his coffin.  Around him, Michael’s members landed and circled.  Then, the archangel descended.  His face was wrathful but Castiel did not cower. 

 

“Brother, what have you done?” Michael asked lowly.  “What is this bond I sense within you?”

 

Castiel squared his shoulders.  “It is what was required to save the Righteous Man.”

 

Michael sneered and took a step forward.  “Surely,” he whispered venomously, “you haven’t forgotten what Fate has written, have you brother?”

 

Castiel kept his gaze straight even though his Grace trembled slightly in fear.  He knew what would happen but he couldn’t bring himself to regret the reason why.

 

“You bring dishonor.”  Michael regarded his black wings.  “You are colored in failure.”

 

—

 

As Dean Winchester rose from the grave with no memory of his salvation, Castiel entered Heaven’s prison for reconditioning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hesediel see here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zadkiel
> 
> Just a headcanon of mine :)


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